


A Different Kind

by halbeshaus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, the harry and snape tag completely platonic, this isn't slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 09:57:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19423642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halbeshaus/pseuds/halbeshaus
Summary: For Severus Snape, the afterlife isn't packed with do-gooders and choirs of singing angels. His paradise -- his eternal damnation -- is his own memory.





	A Different Kind

Let no one think of me  
As humble or weak or passive; let them understand  
I am of a different kind: dangerous to my enemies,  
Loyal to my friends. To such a life glory belongs.

Euripides, _Medea_ 805-08

* * *

i.

Say the afterlife is memory. Every fleeting moment you ever lived, every thought you quickly vanished, even that which you gave away in crystalline bottles – it is there waiting for you once you die. It’s not that your life flashes before your eyes on the brink of death, but that your eternity is remembrance.

Hell, I think the sinners call it – paradise, the faithful.

1.

Words have power, a far greater magic than the slip of potion or the flash of wand-light. To think, one spoken word could change the direction of the stars, tilt the world from its axis, carve rivers from the earth. But what word was it that cemented his fate, that brought him here to his knees, begging in a candlelit chamber? Slytherin? No, not that. 

_Mudblood_. The word coats his mouth, burdens his tongue the way prophecy did not.

“I beg of you, my lord. Spare her. I... I—”

The Dark Lord’s teeth bare in a cruel smile, eyes flash red. “You desire her?” The tone is half mocking, draws a nervous titter of laughter from the older, more seasoned Death Eaters.

Desire is one word for it. Severus craves her, aches to be a child once more with her, to never have dangled her life from unwitting string.

The Dark Lord leans back in his throne-like chair, black robes draping over the finery as he braces his elbow on the armrest.

“It would be a waste. She is pleasant enough, despite the misfortune of her blood.” Something ticks in his mind. “Consider this my gift to you, Severus, in return for all you have given me.”

2.

Severus sits, bare months later, hunched over himself in Dumbledore’s office. That _he_ should live – James Potter’s son – while she should die... it does not do. The world is bleak and stark tonight, and here in the tower lies no hint of the celebrations which litter the wizarding world. There is no victory to be found in Lily’s death.

“He has her eyes, precisely her eyes. You remember the shape and colour of Lily Evans’ eyes, I am sure?”

“DON’T! Gone... dead...”

Dumbledore couldn’t let it rest for even a moment, and for what reason other than to mock or injure? The Dark Lord is defeated, the boy only just been left with his aunt, and Lily dead. He’d trade places, if only he were dead and not her—

“And what use would that be?” _Use?_ Dumbledore spoke through a haze, but even so, the needling point is clear; what worth, what purpose, has Severus, now that nothing remains of his former master? “If you truly loved her, then your way forward is clear. Make sure she did not die in vain. Help me protect Lily’s son.” 

A pretence of choice presented so calmly, as if Severus having an option lay in reality. The world would soon be a fervour of those seeking out and wishing to destroy the hidden few who’d followed the Dark Lord. Severus was powerless – he had no money, no connections, no means to prevent his own destruction – and for this Dumbledore mocks him.

“The Dark Lord is dead,” Severus says.

“The Dark Lord will return, and Harry Potter will be in terrible danger when he does.” 

Silence – enough to make a pin drop. He forces his ragged breathing to even out, swallows back whatever insult he longs to hurl.

“Very well. Very well. But never tell, Dumbledore! This must be between us! I cannot bear ... especially Potter’s son ... I want your word!”

“That I shall never reveal the best of you? If you insist...”

3.

The boy is arrogant, spiteful; that much is clear from where he sits; a pair of wide green eyes gazing back at Severus from across the hall. He is the very image of James Potter.

 _I am alive_ , he says, hand raised to scrape the razor thin scar on his forehead, mouth drawn back in a sneer. _She is not_.

4\. 

There are small victories: to watch the boy flush with rage, to stir the anger which lies beneath the surface like he is nothing more than a tempestuously brewing potion.

“5 points from Gryffindor.”

“Detention.”

Wiping the smirk from Potter’s face is the most satisfying part of it all. This is Severus’ victory; to punish the son for the actions of the father, never mind the green eyes which make his blood run cold.

5.

He isn’t a fool. He hears the whispers in the corridors as well as any other, hears the words turn direction at the snap of his robes behind him. 

_Mean. Bullying. Ugly. Greasy. Git._

It hardens his resolve. People don’t change, places don’t either. The halls of Hogwarts weren’t free from taunts as a student, there’s no expectation they would be now that Severus is a professor here. But being Dumbledore’s man has its perks – he has the power, the abilities of a God, able to dole out punishment in return for the insolence.

Cruelty isn’t a sin. It is a gift in the onslaught of hellfire. It’s an armour and a weapon both, passed on from father to son. Severus is no monster, he knows Dumbledore will only let so much pass. There’s no need for the belt, no need to lay drunken hands or sober hexes on a student – not when words offer a far more satisfactory poison.

6.

What was that story? – the one which begged, if only evil men wore marks upon their wrists? If only evil wizards did not. No number of baths or spells or curse scars could remove that brand from his skin. Even the Dark Lord’s demise had only worked to fade it to an ugly, translucent grey.

Tonight though, two Triwizard Champions accounted for – one cursed, one injured – and Potter and Diggory nowhere to be found. There’s no need to lift up his sleeve to check, the Dark Lord s returned, and the Dark Mark burns foul on Severus’ forearm with his calling.

7.

Cruciatus burns bright like fire, twisting every nerve until the pain itself is relief.

ii.

Over time, as you watch yourself live and die, patterns begin to emerge. Lines of thought converge and edge their way to the surface which, in turn, you follow blindly. No external fate decides the path you stumble down, that fault falls all on you.

You’ll get it down to the essential links in that chain soon enough. There’s really no need for us to step in and sweeten the deal. Eventually you’ll have made for yourself what we could have only dreamed of: a hedonist’s wet dream, or perhaps your own personal torture chamber.

You were quicker than the rest, mapping out your personal tragedy, boiling down that pathway until only the barest of bones remained. You’ve a natural talent for it, I’ll give you that, traversing the planes of memory until you find exactly what it is you need to injure. Of all the memories you could have followed, of all the gleaming threads of life you could have chased, your small impression of a consciousness chose these.

This isn’t a penance, you do understand that? When you’re done circling the drain down to absolution you realise you’ll find no reprieve? You could have built a paradise, lived forever innocent there as a child, but you built yourself a prison.

8.

It seems unfitting that his memories in the pensieve are the same silver-white of a patronus. Of what they are he can’t remember beyond the faintest outline of school grounds, the Dark Lord’s cruel smile, and Lily living like a ghost in the recesses. Nothing marks them out as being distinctly his other than these few gaps in his mind. How easy it would be to simply forget they were parts of him now missing, how easy it would be to turn a blind eye and live unaffected.

_Put them back. Do not forget yourself._

Enough remains to guide him so he knows for certain what his intentions are, what it is that he must do with Potter here in his office. Occlumency – a far subtler art than most magic, but a powerful tool nonetheless to protect one’s mind from those who wish to penetrate it.

Potter has no talent for it, naturally – something which the Dark Lord finds to his advantage, and for which Dumbledore aims to offer salvation with his back turned. Severus’ role in this is simple: to offer the success, the failure, of neither, but to what end?

He is a shell of a man without his memories to act as pins holding the pieces of his past together, acting only out of orders rather than conviction. Lily’s absence offers a daunting piece.

One by one, he dips his wand to the pensieve’s surface and places the memories back in his mind.

9.

Broken jars and potion ingredients litter the ground, Severus’ hand still held as if gripping Potter’s arm.

How dare he! – that insolent, arrogant boy – waltzing around as if he could do no wrong. How just like his father he is – perhaps there had been a flicker, the merest shadow of doubt – no, Potter only blanched white at the fear of God. Well, Potter finally had a reason to fear him now...

But was it worth it, this accidental loss of composure, if only to have finally poisoned the son’s image of the father?

10.

At what point do the tides begin to turn? At what point does fate begin to show its changing ways? Or was this always determined and no matter his actions, the boy would always die and Severus will be the one to lead him there?

All this time, he’s been goading the boy to fight, taunting him, protecting him from certain death, and now his whole purpose is subverted, the very reason for his tenure lies in ruin.

How can he live, knowing he is the one to ensure that Harry Potter must die?

The universe is laughing at him, mocking him for his attempt to – to what, exactly? He’d been sold a golden lie, to protect Lily Potter’s son, to give reason, purpose, and to expatriate his guilt. It’s a double edged sword: protect Lily Potter’s son, kill him when the time is right.

For all this, Dumbledore has used him. The entire past decade of his life has been for naught.

But right now Potter was alive, asleep in Gryffindor tower, unknowing of the fate he can’t outrun.

11.

Sometimes death is swift, and other times it is the fall that’s swifter. He’s never killed before. Injured, yes, taken part in initiation ceremonies as a boy which would make grown men weep – but never has he killed...

It’s only sensible, almost poetic, that the one person who knows the whole of the situation, who has both guided and misled him, who has provisioned power and resolve, is the very same whose life Severus looses from its cord.

The curse comes quicker, easier than he imagined it would in uttered words and a flash of vibrant, emerald green. He’s fantasised about this often, dreamt of it almost as much as he has watching Potter die. It’s bittersweet, satisfying and all consuming. Mostly it leaves him numb, painfully aware of his own heart beating in his chest, the hair scraping against the back of his neck.

He’s not sure who he hates more: Dumbledore -- for forcing Severus’ hand, for turning the world into a sand table and making Severus his pawn – or himself. After all, it is he who first set this world in motion.

12.

“Blocked again and again and again until you learn to keep your mouth shut and your mind closed, Potter!” _Listen to me. For once, Listen._ Potter’s spells are too rushed, his choices too obvious and clumsily so. His brash hatred makes him an open book, ripe for the picking. One more taunt, one more aim to injure, and maybe Potter would listen, now that Severus has proved himself to be far more dangerous than just a mean old teacher.

A familiar flash of spell light Severus blocks easily. A quick expelliarmus and Potter’s thrown back, wand knocked from his hand.

“You dare use my own spells against me, Potter? It is I who invented them – I, the Half-Blood Prince! And you’d turn my inventions on me, like your filthy father, would you? I don’t think so ... no!”

“Kill me then,” the boy pants out. “Kill me like you killed him, you coward—”

“DON’T CALL ME COWARD!” Everything he’s done, everything he’s sacrificed – if only Potter knew. Oh, how it would tear him apart, how it would destroy his very core. That ungrateful, foul –

Potter is the only thing Severus has left. His very purpose in life, everything he has worked to protect, to save, to endure, and the boy feels, rightfully, nothing but contempt. If only he knew.

Mouth shut. Mind closed. Take the warning and learn – you’ve a summer still protected – take the warning and run.

13\. 

Now is the wrong time to tell Potter he is going to die. How easy it would be to take him away from here, to lock him away and keep him safe, out of harm’s reach. Let the rest of the world fall to ruin, let muggleborns be cursed for their blood and persecuted, Hogwarts terrorised, what little remains of the Order left to torture. Let it all burn, and as long as Severus lives, as long as the Dark Lord has need for him, Potter would be safe.

He stays close, hidden in the trees, as Potter follows behind the silver doe to the pool where Severus had left the sword. Potter looks ragged, freezing cold, aged a decade.

He averts his eyes as the boy begins to strip.

It’s too soon to speak. The Dark Lord still has his confidence, is still making vast gains and fears not one bit for that snake of his.

14.

It’s happens fast. The need to find Potter – the Dark Lord’s dismissal – Nagini on him, tearing the skin from his throat, biting deep through the jugular. He grasps to stem the blood, fingers and hands not moving the way they should.

Then Potter like an apparition above him. Fingers wind in Potter’s robes, pull him down.

“Take ... it. ... Take ... it. ...” Severus lets his memories go – they spill from his eyes, his ears, his mouth – everything the boy needs to know, everything that might make him trust. Already Severus can’t remember what he’d been holding onto – but the boy’s eyes are green.

“Look... at... me. ...” There’s no hate in Harry’s eyes, no sign of James either, and not yet any resignation of fate. He hopes – but there isn’t time to hope, isn’t time to apologise, to offer absolution.

Staring back at him – wide eyed, horror struck – is the boy he’s about to send towards his death. Death is blinding, an utter, infallible kindness – at least Severus doesn’t have to live to see Harry die.

iii.

You could still back out. It’s not too late, despite what we say. It’s as easy as tricking you mind down another path. You’re already staring into her eyes as you die, so think of her next time. You’re so close to it, your immortal reprieve, and I’ve no soul to tell if you’ve been cheating our game.

You deserve a little happiness. You did do it all for her memory, after all. And how were you to know you were being led astray, that that old coot was lying to you? You worked day by day to lessen what was eating at you, and yet you still think you – oh. Now I see.

You see, eternity tells no lies. We omit the finer details sometimes, gloss over the facts if they’ll lessen the impact of what we’re almost sure you’re aiming for. It gives us a certain level of insight into more human notions, but I suppose it may take us some time to catch on.

Your life’s intention was not its end goal. Somewhere between her and here you lost it, didn’t you? And you found in him your small chance at a saving grace. Now you watch yourself floundering as you fail to seize it.

I’ll let you in on a little secret on the finer point of things: good men fall to the embrace of eternal glory, but just as often they live on and fade into mundanity. Maybe they’ll marry, have some children, perhaps even name one after you. But then you wouldn’t want that, would you? It wasn’t glory or mundanity you were chasing – you weren’t even begging for salvation at the end. You wanted him to live, and yet you left him there to die.

So, I’ll offer you some eternal kindness as my parting gift. This is my judgement, the results of my own little _historie_ of your history: you are nothing more than what your memories make of you – and yours have made you a failure.

* * *

When the moment comes, and you look at them –  
The moment for you to assume the role of murderess –  
How will you do it?  
When your sons kneel to you for pity,  
Will you stain your fingers with their blood?

Euripides, _Medea_ 859-863

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic formed the first part of one of my university assessments. Due to the many parallels which can be made between Snape and characters in Greek tragedy (especially women in Greek tragedy), I chose to create a fanfic which portrayed Snape as a tragic character. The parallels between Medea and Snape are weeeeeird -- they are eerily similar people, ngl. If you read Euripides' _Medea_ you will defs be expecting to see Alan Rickman jump onstage in a black wig and play Medea in style.
> 
> Seriously tho, if you like Snape you'll probably like Medea. They're both dramatic and angsty, and they both are 100% go hard or go home.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr: https://halfbloodsev.tumblr.com


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